


Mindless

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-12-31
Updated: 1999-12-31
Packaged: 2018-11-20 16:48:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11339451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: In the prison cell, Mulder loses all control.





	Mindless

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

Mindless by Nadine

Author: Nadine  
Title: Mindless  
Pairings: M/K  
Rating: NC-17, violence  
Status: Complete  
Spoilers: Tunguska

Summary: In the prison cell, Mulder loses all control.

Notes: I adjusted the original scene a little for my purpose; Krycek's dialogues with the guards are a little different and the mystery prisoner next door does not exist. Just better that way :)

Disclaimer: Do I look as if they were mine?

Feedback:   
Webpage: http://members.xoom.com/DanaScX/   


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Mindless (1/1) NC-17  
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I'm sitting here, on the cold floor, in this barely lit cell, avoiding the foul smell of death and decadence that seems to radiate from the walls, trying to relax my heated mind and exhausted body. Staring at the door. Waiting for it to open. Waiting for him.

I'm not sure what I'm expecting, though. He could be trying to save us both. He could have escaped without me. Could have let me down again. It'd be my fault. I always end up hoping for him to help me, following him, and where does that take me? This time, it took me to a gulag somewhere near Tunguska. Russia. Away from civilization. Into misery and far from anything that resembles freedom. So what if he won't come back? Will I rot be left to rot to death here? Be beaten? Raped? Anything else? You never know...

All my dark inquiries into the possible future become unnecessary --for now-- when the door opens and he is being pushed inside by two guards. He seems upset; they stripped him to his undershirt, and he is yelling at the guards in Russian. They do reply, but seem to ignore Krycek's questions, or pleas, or whatever they were, and just close and lock the heavy old door. Krycek whirls around, panicked, saying, "We gotta get out of here!"

Ah, that's news to me, boy. But there has to be more...

"How do you know?" I respond.

He's now going at the bars on the small window, pointlessly, and when he realizes he won't be moving anything, he turns back to me, avoiding my eyes.

"They were questioning me." Then, after a short pause, "Trying to get me to confess."

Now... do I sense a hint of trouble here?

"To what?" I ask, hoping to sound more challenging. He does not seem to be affected by it, though, still avoiding to look at me, apparently deep in thought. Or something.

Finally, he answers in a low tone. "To being a spy."

What!

In less then a second, I have crossed the small space between us, have him slammed against the wall, facing me, my arm crushing his throat.

"*What* did you tell'em?"

Now he shows some reaction; he was not prepared to my sudden assault and now he's just as enraged as I am, heated, his eyes spilling fire at me.

"That we were stupid Americans lost in the woods."

Yeah. Right. I do not move an inch, continue drilling my eyes into his, trying to a truthful answer out of that lush, scornful mouth.

Then, he puts all possible challenge into his own gaze, says "Mulder, you're going to need me in here", shoves my arm away then adds, in an odd, husky tone, "Don't touch me again."

What!

Now suddenly, all confusion, fear and hopelessness in me detonates in a rush of fury, with him being its target. I push him further into the cold stone, crawl my hands around his throat before he can even realize what is happening, and push. Crush him. Hurt him. He starts gasping for air, his eyes growing huge, deep green ovals staring at me, this odd expression in them, and I lose it completely.

But instead of tightening my fingers even closer around his neck, instead of crushing the life completely out of him, I do something equally as odd.

Grabbing his shoulders, I yank him around, causing his face to slam against the wall. He yells, and that just adds to my rage and my violence, and without second thought I reach around him and tear his white cotton shirt apart, my fingers immediately seeking contact with his bare chest, gripping a sparse patch of hair, scratching over the flat abdomen, digging into smooth skin, trying all my best to hurt him, to make him responsible, to punish him. He does not fight back at this point, just holds still, though he is grunting hateful curses which I don't understand. And I do not stop when I reach his belt buckle, on the contrary it turns me on even more.

Turned on. Yeah, that's what I am. Hot and eager. Bottled up emotion making me blind with rage. And he's there to be violated.

And violate I do, tearing his pants open, doing my best to restrain the now-protesting body, holding him in place brutally, not caring, just heading for the goal.

Then I reach it and find the bastard just as hard as I am, and breathing just as heavy, sweat now running down his back, staining me too. God, what a rat.

I do not waste any more second and rip his underwear off with one hand while holding him still with the other, then yank my own pants down, freeing myself, feeling cold air stroke me. I spit into my free hand.

When I begin to probe his round ass, he hisses, but it's not such a hard act; my first finger enters him effortlessly, and a second and a third slide in after just a moment. So I'm dealing with a pro, huh?

Whore!

With a horse cry, my fingers are out and I ram myself into him, deep, to the hilt all at once. He jerks, inhales sharply, but does not try to resist. Well, I would definitely not advice you to, Krycek.

I pull back then push back in. Hard. He moans. I do it again. Another moan. Again. And again. I'm settling for a fast, frenzied rhythm, thrusting in and out of his body, back and forth, groaning, hissing, squeezing my eyes shut, savoring all of it. And he is getting off on it, too. I sense it by the pace of his breathing, by the tension in his muscles, by the clenching of his ass on my cock, and I realize he must be just as close as I am.

Then I begin to thrust harder, more frantically, for I don't know how long until he suddenly tightens even more, clamps down on me, and lets out a long, deep, throaty moan.

That's all it takes for me. Another thrust, then another, and another, and I am moaning just as he is, coming, spilling into him, losing myself, finally finding release.

God, I needed that.

When I come to, he is leaning against the wall that is now stained with his seed, making no attempt whatsoever to get away from me. I decide to just withdraw, and when I do, he doesn't even flinch. Just stands there, eyes closed, facing the gray stone.

I open my mouth to say something degrading to him --which is quite a task if I want to top what I just did to him-- when the door is opened again and a guard pokes his head in. He notices out state, both with our pants down, our members hanging limply in front of us. He snorts, but doesn't pay it more attention. When Krycek notices the man, he slowly pulls his pants back up, as if expecting what happens next.

The guard walks toward him, grabs him and yells something. Krycek, however, addresses him calmly, which only seems to piss the guard off more. They seem to argue for a moment, and when they both are silent, I ask, "What are you saying?"

He responds, not looking at me, "That I want to see his supervisor."

The guard now apparently agrees with whatever Krycek demanded, and steps away to let him out of the cell.

Before leaving, Krycek turns to me.

"Da svidanya."

Then the door falls shut and I am alone.

And I have a feeling I will be alone from now on.  
  


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